Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [205]
“No, God!” he cried. “I forbid this!”
But God was not listening and Dietrich wondered madly if He, too, had fallen to the pest and His vast incorporeal essence, “infinitely extended without extent or dimension,” was rotting even now in the endless void of the Empyrean sphere, beyond the crystalline heavens.
The fear and rage had fled from Theresia’s countenance and she looked down at herself with astonishment. “Daddy? What’s wrong, Daddy?”
Dietrich opened his arms to her and she staggered into them. “Here,” he said. “You must lie down.” He reached into his scrip and pulled out his cloth pocket of flowers and held it to his nose. But their essence had faded, or else the stink was too great.
He guided her to the bed, and thought as she leaned upon him that she had become already as light as a spirit. As it is the nature of earth to seek the center of the earth, so is it the nature of air to seek the heavens.
Gregor had come to the door of the cottage. “I heard you cry—Ach, Herr God in Heaven!”
Theresia turned to go to him. “Come, dear husband.” But Dietrich held her firmly. “You must lie down.”
“Ja, ja, I am so tired. Tell me a story, Daddy. Tell me about the giant and the dwarf.”
“Gregor, bring my lance. Wash it with old wine and hold it in the fire, as Ulf showed us. Then hurry.”
Gregor leaned against the jamb and ran a hand over his face. He looked up. “The lance. Ja, doch. So soon as possible.” He hesitated. “Will she …?”
“I don’t know.” Gregor left and Dietrich made Theresia lie down upon the straw. He arranged a blanket under her head as a pillow. “I must check for the pustules,” he told her.
“Am I sick?”
“We’ll see.”
“It’s the pest.”
Dietrich said nothing, but lifted the sodden gown.
There it sat in her groin, great and black and swollen, like a malignant toad. It was larger than the one he had lanced on Everard. It could not have grown overnight. When the onset was rapid, the afflicted died quickly and quietly, without pustules. No, this had been growing for several days, if he was to judge by those he had seen on others.
Gregor rushed in and squatted beside him, first passing him the lance still warm from the fire, then taking Theresia’s hand in his own. “Schatzi,” he said.
Theresia’s eyes had closed. Now they opened and she gazed seriously into Dietrich’s face. “Will I die?”
“Not yet. I need to lance your pustule. It will give great pain, and I have no more sponges.”
Theresia smiled, and blood dripped from the corners of her mouth, reminding Dietrich of the stories of the Freudenstadt Werewolf. Gregor had found a cloth somewhere and he dabbed at the blood, trying to clean her, but more blood welled up with every dab. “I am afraid for her to open her mouth,” he said tightly. “I think all her life will gush forth.”
Dietrich climbed atop the woman and sat athwart her legs. “Gregor, hold her down by the arms and shoulder.”
He reached toward the pustule in Theresia’s crotch. When the point had but touched the tough, hard integument, Theresia shrieked, “Sancta Maria Virgina, ora pro feminis!” And her legs spasmed wildly, nearly unseating Dietrich. Gregor grimly held tight to her arms.
Dietrich pressed in with the point, thrusting a little to break the skin, as he had grown sadly accustomed to doing. I am too late, he thought. The pustule is far advanced. It was the size of an apple, and of a dark, malignant blue.
“She showed no sign of it yesterday,” Gregor said. “I swear it.”
Dietrich believed him. She had concealed the signs, afraid of being bedded among the demons. What sort of fear was it, he wondered, that could smother even the fear of ghastly death? The Lord had commanded, be not afraid, but men broke all His other commandments, why not that one?
The skin broke and a thick, foul, yellow ichor oozed forth, coloring her